A touch

I was thinking about touching today. It occurred to me that I go days or even weeks without touching anyone, or being touched, except for when I am with my darling wife on the weekends. Normally I don't perceive the physical space around my body unless someone penetrates it. My personal space exists automatically, like my breathing.

Sometimes people penetrate that space, either on purpose or by accident. A handshake in a meeting; a bump in the hallway. Once in awhile someone hugs me, or pats me on the shoulder. Once, a friend took my hand and placed it on her pregnant belly, and I felt the baby moving inside her. It was a rare touch, made all the more memorable by the intimacy and the trust she placed in me. But generally, I exist in spatial isolation.

Some people I know like to be touched. They crave it, and seek it out. They revel in being touched. I don't really understand that. It's not that I don't like to be touched - I do, generally. But I never think of it, because it so seldom happens.

Do other people touch each other a lot? I don't know. There are friends whom I have not touched in years, even if I see them on a regular basis. There are strangers whom I touch more regularly than my friends.

It seems odd to me that I touch strangers more than the people I love. Perhaps it's not odd. It's one of those things that seems strange when you think about it, like when you consider a common word that suddenly seems like a very weird word, when you focus on it.